The city and the rainbow

It begins with pancakes and honey. Well, it does for Amanda and me. For Dave it's more the other way round - a lot of honey with a side of pancakes. We are all feeling more rested and chatter over breakfast about how most of Dave's photos so far have been selfies and flowers. Make of that what you will.

We pack up and walk to the station to catch the train to the start of the final day's trek. Waiting for the 7.30 train with us are a few kids in blue uniforms heading to school. Education is really valued in Peru - the schools are easy to spot because they're brightly coloured and clearly cost a lot more to build than the houses. We board the train and gaze out of the window at the Urubamba as we follow it towards Machu Picchu. Thanks to a dodgy table I end up with orange juice in my lap not 15 minutes into the journey, and spend the rest of it mopping up and feeling wet and slightly irritated.

We hop off seemingly in the middle of nowhere and begin to climb again, heading up to join the Inca Trail. We are much lower here, and it's lush with rainforest. We take our minds off our aching limbs by pointing out wild orchids and beautiful butterflies. In Peru, the name for orchids is Winaywayna and means 'forever young'.

We pause at an Inca settlement, an outpost where traders would stop to eat and sleep between Machu Picchu and Cusco. Elkin explains the features of the ruins: where people slept and where the food was stored; what the little niches in the walls were for; how to identify the original stonework from that which has been reconstructed. From there we continue our ascent, which is easier thanks to the past few days' practise and the lower altitude, but still hard going as there are a lot of steps.

We are heading to the second of three Inca farming and storage bases, also named Winaywayna. Each is positioned at a different altitude, enabling the people to cultivate different crops. We cross a bridge where a waterfall tumbles over the rocks and flows out through the forest. Dave and I take the opportunity to dip our fingers into the cold, clear water and snap some photos. It's here that my SD card runs out, and Dave is kind enough to lend me one of his for the rest of the journey.

We arrive at Winaywayna, which to my utter delight has wild llamas pottering about on the stepped terraces. I am so excited that Amanda declares, "Charli's having a llamagasm". I am not ashamed, they're fabulous creatures with their slightly haughty look. I wander onto a terrace to see if one of them is friendly, and Amanda manages, somehow to achieve this photographic gold:

Llama antics over, we head on towards Machu Picchu. The steps are rough on Amanda, whose thighs are still giving her grief, and it's with some sheepishness that I admit we were overtaken by a pack of sprightly American tourists in their seventies as we struggled with the steps. To add insult to injury, we realise too late that we should've been more liberal with the insect repellent - we are covered in black fly bites which itch like crazy. I've also come out in a rotten cold and am blowing my nose every 10 minutes.

We break for something to eat by some more ruins, where there's a long drop into the valley. Dave jokes about me not throwing myself over, to which I respond jovially, "Just cos I'm depressed, doesn't mean I'm suicidal!" It's a light-hearted comment, but a pertinent one. Many people seem to think there's no scale of depression, that having the illness automatically makes you a suicide risk, and it simply isn't true. Even on the worst days I never wanted to kill myself and I am far, far too chicken to try.

Further on, we come to a place where we can see Machu Picchu. As we take our first proper look at the city, a rainbow appears, arcing over the valley to our right. It's a magical moment, standing on a rocky ledge with the end of our journey in sight and a rainbow promising hope. There's an American girl travelling solo who shares it with us and it dawns on me that soon we will be looking at Machu Picchu up close.

The rain has stopped by the time we arrive. We pass the Sungate, but don't stay long as it's thick with tourists and doesn't compare to the one we encountered earlier in the trip. Instead we continue on, descending towards the city.

And then there it is, this magnificent, abandoned realm, nestling in the shadow of Huayna Picchu. We take a minute to take in the sight, and what we have just achieved. I have seen this image so many times on the internet that it seems strange to be looking at it for real. I allow myself to just be, to fully experience this moment before we don our charity T-shirts for some pictures. Standing together with Amanda and Dave for a photo I feel like I'm part of their family - we have been through so many highs and lows together over the past week. And our journey, which has been so much more than these five days of trekking, is finally at an end.

An unexpected day off

I wake up after a deep, exhausted sleep. It is light, the first time I have slept till daylight in several days. It's warm here in the valley, and I can hear a stream running behind my tent. I inspect my scraped legs, gently wiping away the dirt with a wet wipe and then slapping antibacterial gel onto the cuts. It stings like hell but at least they're clean.

Elkin stops by the tent with this morning's tea. I haven't seen him since we watched the condors together the previous day. He places a hand on mine and tells me how sorry he is for yesterday, how I was brave and how he regrets his decision. I guess I learned something in therapy, because I forgive him. It's something I've been practising, because there's been a lot I've needed to forgive myself for these past few months. For sure, he was a bloody idiot, but we're both human, he and I, and sometimes we mess up. Anyways, I'm too tired and too relieved to be pissed off.

I sip my tea and the sound of voices floats over to my tent. They're alive! I wonder if they need some time, but I can't help myself, I have to go see Dave and Amanda. They're holding cups of coffee, still inside their sleeping bags, talking about yesterday. We compare notes on what happened - they took a different route and never made it to camp until 9.45pm, long after I was asleep. Amanda is bearing scars too - cuts on her legs and deep muscle ache in her thighs. Dave's legs are so dirty it looks like he's wearing tights. Both are angry, and I can't really blame them - I think how hard it must have been for them, worrying whether they'd get down in one piece and both with kids at home.

Breakfast is served and I realise I'm famished. Amanda and I eat bacon and eggs, Dave goes for a shower. There's a lot of tension. But there is also bacon. And I like bacon. I eat more than I have eaten in one sitting since we started the trek, and Amanda and I have a good stretch out on the grass.

We're not up to walking to Piscacucho and the camp at the beginning of the Inca Trail, so we agree to get a cab there. The journey is a little hairy - bumpy roads in an ancient car with no seat belts and a couple of near misses on the small village roads. But I for one am kind of glad not to be walking. I'm also very careful not to see this as a failure. After all, today was to be a walk of only a couple of hours, and we certainly put in the extra time yesterday. I'm keen for the others not to see it as a failure either. Turns out I need lots of the lessons I learned in therapy today.

So we're installed on a proper campsite, in a hut with proper beds and - to my ultimate joy - a shower. It's freezing. I wash with no more contact with the water than I can bear, and then I shove my head under and wash my hair. I dry and dress as fast as possible, but I'm not about to complain. I just had a shower!

The campsite is in a beautiful setting, surrounded by mountains and with the Urubamba rushing along its edge. We are brought beer and soft drinks, and we spend the day taking it easy, eating, talking, napping. Amanda and I pop down for a sauna to heat our aching bodies, and I begin to feel a little more human.

We talk a lot about getting down the mountain. How it kind of throws you closer to share something horrible, how we feel about everything. Dave tells me I should feel proud of myself given the past year, and I do - I'm proud that I got through it and I'm still smiling. But I think they should be proud too, to face something that dangerous and scary, to keep their courage and to get down in one piece. And to still want to finish the trek, despite the impossibly aching limbs, the disillusionment of the previous day and the overwhelming tiredness. It takes strength and guts to show that kind of determination. Yes, I'm proud of us all.

Don't look down (part I)

Marcus Aurelius is credited with saying,  "Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou wilt always look there." Although I didn't think of it at the time, I would apply these words to the third day of our trek. 

It begins well: we wake up to one of the most beautiful sunrises I will ever see. After breakfast, we stand together watching the light play and the clouds shift across the Veronica glacier, enjoying the peace of the early morning. There are times when total isolation is a comfort, when it's a relief to know that your frenetic everyday world cannot touch you. This is one of them. There is no phone signal. There is no-one but us. Only a handful of Europeans have ever stood on this spot and allowed this view to administer its healing balm to their aching souls. Now, we are among them.

To the sun gate

We set off at seven and are walking for three hours or so before hunger gets the best of us. By now we've realised that timing goes out the window when you're trekking. If you're hungry, you eat, whether it's usually considered an acceptable time for lunch or not. We sit on a rock looking down at the sun gate and nibble on sandwiches and fruit. Dave seems to be the only one for whom altitude has had no effect on appetite. I pick, eating slowly and saving half my food for later.

This sun gate is not the one that faces Machu Picchu. That one, Elkin explains, is not a 'true' sun gate, as it faces the abandoned city, rather than facing east towards the rising sun. The one that we are heading to frames the Inca goddess, Mount Veronica. The path to the sun gate (or Inti Punku in Quechua) is probably the flattest one we encounter during the whole trek. Reaching the gate itself is another moment where a sense of achievement is mixed with wonder, and the last point at which all three of us feel entirely positive.

The way down

It's after this that things go south. Instead of taking the clear path back from the sun gate and down to the town, Elkin instead leads us across the side of the mountain where there is no real path. To say that we are careful not to look down would be an understatement; we are practically pressing our bodies into the rock wherever possible and fixing our eyes firmly ahead.

Instead of being a ten minute ordeal, the descent turns into an eight hour nightmare as we shuffle and falter and curse our way down an incredibly steep mountain that has no path. There is no room in my brain for fear as I negotiate the slippy ground and sharp rocks, holding tight to a hand when it is offered and otherwise hoping my poles will see me through. My mind and muscles are entirely focused on inching myself down the slope. 

Before long I am out in front of Dave and Amanda, purely, I think, through my eagerness to get off the mountain. The sun is thudding onto my neck, my arms, my face. My toes, pressed against my boots because of the angle, are throbbing dully with every step.

At around 3pm I run out of water. I am sat now, resting for a moment and reapplying sunscreen before I can continue. Suddenly a shout goes up: "Condor, condor, condor!" I look up to see three magnificent birds silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky, wheeling and gliding on the thermals. One approaches, flying close enough for me to see his white collar. For precious seconds I forget my sore feet, my aching legs, my hot skin as I make sure this sight is etched onto my memory. I have seen real, wild condors. It crosses my mind that there are three birds, and three travellers, and I hope it's a sign that we will all arrive safely in camp before too long. 

It's a relief when, at around 4pm, the sun begins to sink behind a mountain, offering some shade. No matter how far I seem to descend, the valley looks a long way off, and I'm beginning to wonder if any of us will make it before nightfall, but I press on, my optimism hanging on with gritted teeth and broken nails, unaware, as yet, that the worst is still to come.